


Epilogue

by Lynchy8



Series: The Life and Times of Enjolras and Grantaire [8]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bahorel and Feuilly as parents, Daddy Ferre!, F/F, F/M, I couldn't leave this alone at all, I hope, If you don't love Daddy Ferre then I can't help you, M/M, amazing!, and the angst should be at a minimum, but it should be fun, oh look smut happened, some allusions to almost-sex, the rating may change in later chapters, there were a few too many loose ends that needed tying, this will not be very long, though I forgive you all for not believing me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-11 21:36:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynchy8/pseuds/Lynchy8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years after their move to Australia, Enjolras and R need to talk...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been nagging and nagging and nagging away at me and is 100% responsible for my DtW block.  
> There are not any spoilers for that in the first chapter but there may be (will be) later on so please bear that in mind...

Enjolras was in his study, the air conditioning on full blast in an attempt to combat the worst of the afternoon heat. Fully immersed in the huge pile of paperwork, he was shocked back into the room by a resounding crash, followed by a series of muffled oaths from the direction of the kitchen. Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed his eyes, taking a deep breath before going to investigate, wondering what his husband had broken now.

R had been in an odd mood for a couple of months now. It had started with little gripes, a few more arguments than normal and a fair few slammed doors. Nothing too out of the ordinary. Nothing Enjolras couldn’t handle.

In January, R had gone to New York on business for three weeks, swapping the Australian summer for snow. As much as he would have liked to have gone with him, Enjolras was caught up with work and so R had travelled alone, staying with Cosette and Éponine in their neat little apartment in a fashionable part of Manhattan. Ép had stopped working as a JVJ rep about two years before, settling in the city and moving in with Cosette; while R was pleased that things had worked out for her, he missed working with her dreadfully.

Enjolras had hoped that spending some time with Cosette and Éponine would lift Aire out of his funk but it seemed to have had the opposite effect. He was grumpier than ever, withdrawing to his studio, even locking the door, keeping Enjolras out.

Enjolras had persevered with his tried and tested method of dealing with R when he got like this; a somewhat contradictory mixture of plenty of hugs and plenty of space. He was attentive and tactile but kept the chatter to a minimum to allow his husband the headspace to try and vocalise what he was feeling. But in the last two weeks or so it had become almost unbearable and Enjolras was going to have to do something about it soon.

Now, at the sound of something smashing against the kitchen floor, of his husband cursing in a hopeless and broken tone, it seemed to Enjolras the moment had finally come. He stepped out purposefully into the hallway.

He found R sitting cross-legged on the linoleum, looking at the remnants of a mug on the floor. He didn’t seem to be attempting to clear it away at all, he was just looking at it, as though trying to will it to tidy or repair itself with the power of his mind. Enjolras crouched down beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“Ok, love,” he said gently, ever so gently, keeping the tiredness out of his tone, in case R got the wrong idea. “Talk to me.”

Aire looked up at him. The man before him was closer to forty than thirty, his wild tangle of curls heavily peppered with grey strands, and his eyes beset with laughter lines. But those eyes were still so big, round, and as lost as they had ever been. It took all of Enjolras’s strength to maintain eye contact and not sweep him into a hug.

“You’ve been going down this path for a while now, love. I’ve tried to give you space but I think it’s time you let me in, or at least try to tell me…” Enjolras trailed off as Aire looked away from him, closing his eyes and lowering his head.

“I broke your mug,” he muttered to the floor, chewing his lip like a child in trouble.

Enjolras inspected the wreckage for the first time. Once upon a time, the fragments had been mostly black, but here and there were splashes of red. _Oh_.

“It’s only a mug, R,” he said softly, beginning to rub his hand comfortingly into R’s shoulder. He felt a pang of worry. He knew how Aire could be about things from their past, how he treasured little items, small yet tangible objects, relics of their shared history.

“Your Dungeon Master mug,” Aire corrected, pouting slightly.

“I know, I remember,” Enjolras smiled. “You got it for me for my birthday.”

That was from before, so many years before. Before they were even together, although only just. The memory was warm and vivid in his mind and he was grateful for it. 

Silence descended upon them once more and Enjolras was practically screaming inside his own head, wishing not for the first time that he could read his husband’s mind. This was not about a broken mug. This was much bigger.

“Aire please talk to me,” he whispered, squeezing the man’s shoulder tightly. R huffed, still not looking up, chewing his lip.

“I want to go home,” he said at last.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Combeferre was waiting for them patiently in arrivals when they finally made it through baggage claim and customs. R was used to travelling but Enjolras had always found it to be a stressful experience and was looking forward to a hot bath, some junk food and then passing out in Combeferre’s spare room."
> 
> The boys are back in town...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is unbetad so all mistakes are mine - I'll re-read it in the morning, I just wanted to get it out there.

Combeferre was waiting for them patiently in arrivals when they finally made it through baggage claim and customs. R was used to travelling but Enjolras had always found it to be a stressful experience and was looking forward to a hot bath, some junk food and then passing out in Combeferre’s spare room.

Enjolras hugged his best friend tightly; four years was definitely too long. He stood back briefly while R took his turn, clapping Combeferre on the back and complimenting his beard. The years had been kind to Combeferre and he had cultivated what Courf had dubbed a “mad professor” look. With his beard, glasses and casual waistcoat the only thing missing was a pipe and fob watch.

It had taken just over a month to get to this point. As soon as Enjolras realised that Aire was being deadly serious about wanting to go back to Sussex, even just for a few months rather than permanently, he had set about making preparations. It hadn’t been too difficult, mostly because he had half expected Aire to get itchy feet a lot sooner and had, in fact, had a Return to UK plan in place for about three years. 

When he had pulled the file from the shelf and started looking over the lists, making plans as to what was still useful and what needed updating, Aire had gaped at him, before kissing him firmly, which of course had led to a certain amount of distraction. Clothes had been ripped off in all directions and _really_ , Enjolras thought, _weren’t they too old for all this?_ Never, had been his husband’s response.

And it felt good to have Aire back with him again, to see that grin and feel his heat and taste the sweat at the base of his throat. 

When they eventually returned to the matter at hand they had talked it over extensively. The house in Sussex was currently being rented. Enjolras contacted the property agent immediately, arranging for the tenants to be given their twenty-eight day notice. 

The following day, he had gone to have a long conversation with his father and the company’s HR department which took well over three hours but ended with him being granted a three month sabbatical. It meant that whatever happened, if they decided to stay back in the UK or merely visit, it kept their options open.

They had needed to organise a house sitter for their Australian bungalow which had actually been quite easy. There were always young professionals looking for cheap rent just outside the city and this was the perfect opportunity. They were interviewed extensively and eventually Enjolras found someone he approved of.

Aporia and Cliff were relocated to Enjolras’s parents’ house for the short-term until the future looked a bit more settled. Aire had been rather upset about this because Appy was a free spirit and city living wouldn’t suit her. However, it would be impossible to take her or Cliff back to Sussex with them at this stage. Quarantine in the UK was six months and there was no guarantee they would even be in the country that long.

Persuading the young madam to get into the cat carrier had been traumatic for all parties involved and Aire had joked, while applying liberal amounts of antiseptic, that at least he would carry her marks with him across the world.

They wouldn’t be able to go back to Sussex right away. They would need to pick up the keys first and then the house would be completely unfurnished. R had been all for booking a hotel but when Enjolras let slip to Combeferre that they were planning on visiting, if not staying a bit longer, then the choice had been taken out of their hands. Combeferre insisted that they go to stay with him.

It had been the only row throughout the whole month; the sore subject of telling people. Aire had been surprisingly adamant about the whole thing. He didn’t want anyone to know they were thinking of going back. He didn’t even want them to know they were going to be in the country at first.

“If we’re going to up sticks and move back across the planet I want it to be because it’s the right thing for us, not because our friends emotionally blackmailed us into it,” he’d said. Well, shouted actually, before slamming out of the door. It had been said in the heat of the moment and while he didn’t necessarily mean it to come out that way, the general message was clear. This was going to be about them and no one else. Once they knew what they were doing, then they would tell their friends.

Letting Combeferre in on the secret had been an accident and R knew that. He knew Enjolras wouldn’t deliberately go against Aire, especially when he so rarely asked for things like this. Enjolras did feel guilty, but he also felt slightly relieved. He hated artifice of any kind and keeping a secret like this, it was just too big. He knew how much their friends missed them. He knew how much he missed them back.

But now that they had endured the flight and finally landed and were standing in Combeferre’s calm and pleasant company, Aire couldn’t help but feel relief; relief at being met by someone familiar, at seeing Enjolras’s face smooth out at the sight off his best friend. It had worked out in the end, after all.

Aire let Enjolras sit up front with Combeferre so they could talk while he climbed into the back seat, sitting behind Enjolras as the space behind Combeferre was taken up by a car seat. Idly, he picked up one of the picture books scattered across the back seat, catching Combeferre’s smile in the rear view mirror.

“Where is Tiggy, anyway?” he asked, conversationally.

“Kate’s got her at home. She had swimming this morning but they should be back by now,” he replied, putting the car into gear.

+

Combeferre becoming a father had been rather sudden. Enjolras and Aire had met Kate, his girlfriend and fellow teacher, at their going away party. She had been nice, chatty and more than a match for the group of guys who had been friends for such a long time. They had met when Combeferre started his new job as deputy head teacher and had only been dating for about two months, but Ferre wanted Enjolras to meet her before he disappeared off to the other side of the world. It had been good for Enjolras, as well, to be able to see that his best friend hadn’t been left alone, when everyone else in their group seemed to have someone. 

However, it would be a lie to say that Kate falling pregnant a month later hadn’t come as a shock. Enjolras remembered very clearly the skype conversation, with Combeferre just staring at him, unable to say a word. Enjolras had never seen Combeferre so utterly terrified. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so awful.

“But you own your own house and you have a career,” Enjolras had stated, struggling when it was usually Combeferre being the logical one. “You’re hardly an irresponsible teenager. And even if you were, you would still do a spectacular job. Plus you’ve got Kate.”

At his last words, Combeferre had seemed to come back to himself, and the real root of the trauma had come out. Because he was delighted, he was over the moon at the prospect of being a father. But his own childhood, the divorce, his mother abandoning the family and heading off the Malta, all of that haunted him.

“You’re not like that, Ferre,” Enjolras had insisted. Combeferre had remained quiet, his fears about failing at parenthood rippling beneath the surface. Enjolras knew that he was out of his depth on this one. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do, except hope his friend would see the sense of his words.

\+ 

Naturally, Combeferre took to fatherhood like a duck to water. Mathilde, named for Combeferre’s grandmother, was an absolute sweetie and thousands of photographs had made their way across the world. Courfeyrac had been named godfather, a role he took extremely seriously. It was also entirely his fault that Mathilde was now Tiggy, a nickname that Kate was less than fond of but that the young toddler had embraced whole-heartedly to the point that she refused to answer to anything else. Aire thought that was hilarious.

Everyone agreed that it was Courfeyrac who bought the Tigger onesie, but then it had been Kate’s sister who had bought the Winnie-the-Pooh books to be read at bedtime. No one was entirely sure how that had developed to Mathilde being known as Tiggy but as with all good nicknames there was more mythology than truth.

Whatever the facts of the matter, the little girl in question came barrelling down the hallway towards her father as soon as he put his key in the door.

Aire watched him as he picked up his daughter, groaning at what a big girl she was getting, enjoying how she laughed, her eyes fixed with adoration on her daddy. 

“Now then,” Combeferre said, his voice warm and gentle. “These are my friends. The ones from far away. Do you remember?”

She looked shyly at Enjolras and then Aire, her large eyes taking them in as she sucked her index finger.

“Uncle Raa and Uncle Angelus,” she said slowly, her childish tongue wrapping round the unfamiliar words. Aire dropped his bag down and stepped over towards Combeferre, holding out a welcoming hand.

“Hello,” he said brightly, and he was rewarded by a beam of a smile in return as she reached out to take his hand. “I’m Uncle Raa.”

Enjolras watched him, watched how R’s face was alight, his entire attention drawn by the little girl in Combeferre’s arms. He hadn’t seen Aire with children before. Something very deep inside suddenly ached, but he swiftly pushed it aside as Combeferre turned so that Tiggy could see Enjolras.

“Hello,” he said, suddenly horribly aware of how stiff he was, and feeling very ridiculous because what did you say to a three year old anyway?

Luckily he was rescued at that moment by the arrival of Kate who, judging by the liberal amounts of flour and the teatowel thrown over her shoulder, had been baking with Tiggy before their arrival. There were more greetings, more words of welcome, before they were shown upstairs to the spare room.

Combeferre’s house reminded Enjolras a lot of his parents’ house in Surrey. He supposed a lot of houses were built to the same design, especially in the boom of the 1920’s. The room they would be staying in was pleasant and airy and Enjolras smiled to see that R’s sketch of all their friends which had been given to Combeferre as thirtieth birthday present was hanging on the wall.

After a few more words about bathrooms and how to work the hot water, Combeferre had left them in peace, assuring them that they could help themselves to whatever they wished. Aire had flopped down on the bed immediately, not even bothering to shed his clothes. Enjolras had intended to check his emails but, even though he had just spent a ridiculous amount of time on a plane and then in a car, fatigue overtook him and he was asleep within minutes, passed out on top of the duvet next to R.

+

“Enjolras?”

Aire groped around the unfamiliar bed as though expecting to suddenly discover his husband in the dark. There was a faint glow coming from somewhere in the room and an all-too familiar tap of keys.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Enjolras’s voice carried softly across the room and Aire rubbed his eyes as though hoping to rub some sense into his head. Oh, the joys of jetlag. He shook his head before he realised Enjolras probably couldn’t see him.

The glow faded and there was a click as Enjolras closed the lid of his laptop. Then the bed dipped.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to wake you so I thought I’d send some emails to work. But now you’re awake…” Aire couldn’t help but sigh happily as Enjolras ended his sentence with a soft kiss.

“What time is it?” he mumbled, trying to get his brain to function normally. He felt Enjolras chuckle against his skin.

“It’s one o’clock in the morning here, and just gone midday back home.” Aire groaned, turning towards Enjolras and wrapping his arms around him, pulling his husband close while muttering about stupid jetlag.

“Can I ask you something?” he said at last, whispering to Enjolras’s skin. He felt Enjolras hum his assent.

“Is this what you thought you’d be doing at thirty-eight?”

There was a pause, a breath in the dark, and Aire felt Enjolras shift against him.

“I’m not sure what you mean, R?” Enjolras replied, the question clear in his voice. R sighed, taking a moment to try and vocalise what he was thinking.

“I guess, I thought it would be different. Or maybe I’d feel differently. I don’t know, to be honest I thought I’d be dead and gone at twenty-seven. Then I was expecting it to change at thirty and then it didn’t and now I’m nearly forty which is a bit old for a tortured artist and I was wondering if it was just me or if you felt the same?”

He was explaining it badly and he knew it. He could feel Enjolras’s frown in the darkness.

“What were you expecting to change?”

“I guess I’m waiting to grow up. You know, house, mortgage, nine-to-five at the office, two-and-a-half kids… life.”

Aire stuttered to a halt, running out of words and still unable to express this strange sensation that at his age he probably should have settled down a bit by now. To his surprise, Enjolras pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead, before snuggling, actually honest-to-god snuggling against him.

“Those are societal expectations, R. There’s a huge difference between what people think should happen and what actually happens. I love our little life. I don’t think I feel the same as I did at eighteen years of age. We’ve both come a long way since then,” he paused for a moment to let those words sink in, both of them thinking back twenty years.

“But if I thought about the future at all, then yes, this is exactly what I hoped to be doing with my life; and that’s spending it at your side.”

They were silent together in the darkness, Aire content to listen to Enjolras’s breathing, while the other ran his finger’s absentmindedly through R’s hair.

“And besides,” Enjolras continued, his grip in R’s hair suddenly growing tighter, “Pablo Picasso lived to be ninety-one years old.”

Aire had to kiss him then. His lips found Enjolras’s skin easily, hands skimming lightly over shoulders, down to his waist, thumbs rubbing and pressing at Enjolras’s hip bones. His husband met him, touch for touch, moving beneath his hands, returning the kiss hungrily, before breaking it, moving to lick down Aire’s neck.

“We are never going to be too old for this,” Aire breathed, licking across Enjolras’s collarbone, enjoying how the man shuddered in his arms.

“We really shouldn’t,” Enjolras protested weakly. “This is Ferre’s house.”

Aire ignored him, biting down on Enjolras’s shoulder, delighted with the row of teethmarks that appeared against the pale skin.

“People might hear,” Enjolras’s voice was a croak and Aire can tell the man barely believed his own protestations.

“People are asleep,” he muttered in return, fingers tracing lower, because he could feel how hard Enjolras was, the man was flush against his thigh and he really wanted to make Enjolras squirm; make the man bite his own hand to stifle the moans and the thought of that has him suppressing his own groan of want as he gripped Enjolras harder.

But then they both froze and their eyes met in mutual horror as a sound rent through the silence of the house. It was the cry of a child.

Enjolras was the first to breathe again and when he did it was with a smile.

“There are children in the next room,” he chuckled quietly, continuing their conversation from before even though the mood was completely broken and Aire didn’t think he had ever been turned off as fast.

“Shit, do you think she heard? I mean there must be laws about that sort of thing…” Aire’s panicked babbling was silenced by Enjolras’s index finger resting against his lips. On reflex he parted them, to take in Enjolras’s finger and suckle it quietly. In the darkness he could just about make out Enjolras’s gentle smile.

“Kids cry in the night, Aire, it happens,” he reassured quietly.

They heard a door creak on the landing and then Combeferre’s low voice talking, calming Tiggy down from her nightmare. Enjolras cuddled into Aire’s side, his head resting in the crook of Aire’s neck where it had always belonged.

“Aren’t you glad you don’t have kids!” he whispered, before dropping off to sleep, leaving Aire awake in bed, those words rattling round his lead long after Combeferre had succeeded in settling his daughter and returning to his own room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and R go back to Surrey

As Combeferre’s car turned off the main road, heading down the lane towards their driveway entrance, the hairs on the back of R’s neck rose with anticipation. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Enjolras leaning forward in the front passenger seat and he couldn’t help but smile.

They were twenty-four hours later than originally planned, thanks to the jet lag that had found both of them unable to keep their eyes open between eight o’clock in the morning and five o’clock in the afternoon. 

Aire emerged first, stumbling out of bed, apologising profusely for wasting Combeferre’s day. Ferre had waved him off, insisting his day had been far from wasted. As it was the school holidays, he had spent the morning having his tattoos coloured in with felt tip pens (“It helps her practise keeping inside the lines,” Ferre grinned, rolling up his sleeves to show the now multi-coloured chemical compounds on his right bicep) while the afternoon had been spent as the Junior Technical Advisor on a very exciting Lego construction project of which Tiggy was Site Manager.

R joined them on the carpet for a site inspection, Tiggy talking him through the intricate design while the Junior Technical Advisor went off to make the coffee. Hearing the bathroom door open and close upstairs, Combeferre made a third mug before returning to the living room where Tiggy was lecturing Uncle Raa on the importance of building a sturdy staircase.

“You’re quite the architect,” R complimented, earning himself a shy smile. He accepted the mug from Combeferre, trying to shake the sluggish first-thing-in-the-morning feeling clouding his head.

“Uncle Raa, are you a hamster?” Tiggy looked up at him with big eyes, the same colour as her father’s, and R smiled at the familiar curious look on her face that he had often seen when Combeferre was concentrating on something.

“Tiggy,” Combeferre frowned and her attention shot over to him, face open and questioning. “What did we say about appropriate questions?” 

Tiggy looked back over at R, eyes wide, biting her lip slightly, but R couldn’t help laughing.

“It’s ok,” he smiled shooting a quick look over to Combeferre, hoping he wasn’t contradicting a parent in front of their child, but he could see the spark of amusement in Ferre’s eyes. “Why do you ask, Tiggs?”

“Daddy said Duck sleeps all day because he’s a hamster and that’s what they do,” she reasoned, fiddling with the Lego bricks on the floor. R looked over at Ferre who was now smiling at his daughter, understanding her reasoning.

“That’s right, hamsters do sleep all day. But Uncle Raa is human.” Combeferre corrected gently.

“That’s debatable,” Enjolras appeared, stifling a yawn. He silently accepted the mug from Combeferre’s hand, nodding gratefully.

“Oh, good afternoon, Enjolras, how nice of you to join us!” R sat up, grinning over at his husband. Enjolras scowled over at him, but then coughed in surprise as a small human hurled itself round his legs with a joyful cry. Evidently Tiggy was pleased to see him.

“Why don’t you show Uncle Enjolras your house?” Combeferre somehow managed to keep his face straight as Enjolras tried to unfasten the child’s arms from his knees. He found himself being dragged by a surprisingly strong three year old to the admittedly impressive construction. 

R groaned loudly as he struggled to his feet, staggering to join Ferre in the doorway, watching Enjolras’s serious expression as the layout of the downstairs was explained to him in minute detail.

“She called her hamster ‘Duck’?” he whispered, raising a questioning eyebrow. Ferre shrugged.

“We decided it was best not to argue.”

All three sat watching Tiggy amuse herself with Lego, chattering away as she instructed invisible hordes around the increasingly elaborate house. The adults talked amongst themselves, catching up on old times. Even though Combeferre and Enjolras had spoken a couple of times a month, it was still amazing how much they had all missed out on.

“If you’re still sure about scaring our friends to death,” Combeferre said dryly, a knowing glint in his eye, “then Joly and Bossuet have confirmed they are coming down in two weeks’ time.” Aire grinned broadly while Enjolras considered.

They had talked about it quite a lot before coming back to England. Enjolras and Aire wanted to see their house first and have a few more Serious Conversations before telling anyone else they were back. They didn’t want to raise anyone’s hopes by appearing back here if there was no intention of staying. Joly and Bossuet being down would be an excellent excuse for a reunion. Combeferre was talking about booking a hotel or the upstairs of a bar or something; a space where the friends and their families could all meet up and talk.

Aire was attracted to the idea of just strolling in casually as though he and Enjolras had just got off a bus. But first they wanted to see the house.

The following day, after a slightly more settled night, they piled into Combeferre’s car and drove down to Surrey. As the house came into view something lurched in Aire’s stomach. It looked much the same as it had when they had driven away from it four years before. The Lamarque Rose was now growing wildly around the door and up the wall of the front of the house. The sun reflected off the windows, dazzling them slightly, adding to the general beauty of the building. Catching a movement in the corner of his eye, R turned to see Enjolras looking at him, eyes blazing and passionate. R returned his look with a grin; they were home. 

Ferre had barely brought the car to a halt before Enjolras was unbuckling his seat belt and fumbling with the door handle. R met him in front of the car and they stood together, hands clasped, looking up at their house, their home. They exchanged a silent look, two pairs of bright eyes communicating their childish excitement, before they both strode purposefully towards the front door. 

Combeferre hung back, taking his time unbuckling Tiggy from her seat. She was unusually quiet, observing this new place over her father’s shoulder. She clung tightly to his neck when he took her out of the car, making it clear that she did not wish to be put down, so he balanced her on his hip, closing the car door and locking it.

“Where are we, Daddy?” she whispered, looking up at the house with big eyes. He smiled at her, brushing some of her brown locks from her forehead.

“This is Uncle Enjolras and Uncle Raa’s house,” he advised. At his response her eyes opened even wider.

“Does that mean we’re Far Away?” she gasped, looking very serious indeed and Combeferre couldn’t help but laugh, kissing her cheek. She pulled a face, as though this was far too serious a moment for kisses and Daddy really should know better.

“No, darling. This is where they lived before they went Far Away,” he chuckled. 

Tiggy looked back up at the house. Enjolras and R had disappeared, the front door open and inviting for them to follow. So, giving his daughter a reassuring squeeze, Combeferre went after them.

Inside was clean but very empty. All the shelves that acted as dividing walls were devoid of books, the off-white shell giving the impression of being inside a giant skeleton. Combeferre looked around, wondering where his friends had gone. They weren’t in his immediate line of sight and at first he thought they might have gone upstairs, but then his eye was caught by the screen doors to the garden which were ajar.

Enjolras and R were in the garden. Combeferre watched them, a strange stab of sadness striking him as he watched his friends. R was standing by the Blue Door sculpture at the bottom of the garden, R’s fingers lightly tracing the old woodwork which had obviously weathered in the intervening years. Enjolras stood behind his husband, hand on his shoulder, and Combeferre turned away from the private moment.

A small hand rested on his cheek, stroking into his beard.

“Are you sad, Daddy?” Tiggy asked softly and when he smiled it wasn’t forced.

“No, Tiggy. I promise I’m not sad. I’m thinking.” Combeferre winced slightly. To him, “I’m thinking” covered all manner of sins. It reminded him of when he had been a child and his father had said “I’ll see,” instead of an outright no. Or worse “Because I said so” in the place of a proper explanation.

When he had become a parent, he had made solemn promises to himself that he would never fob his child off with platitudes and non-excuses. He would always try to explain as succinctly as he could. However, it had proved a difficult promise to keep. Tiggy was a curious and bright child but that didn’t mean he was about to bombard her with all the emotions he was currently experiencing. He found himself using “I’m thinking” more and more and he hated himself for it because one of these days she was going to work out that Daddy Thinking was actually Daddy Avoiding The Question.

When Enjolras and Aire returned to the house itself, there was no trace of the moment with the door. R had his hands jammed into his jeans pockets, looking decidedly pleased with himself, while Enjolras’s cheeks were flushed slightly pink from the spring breeze.

“We’ll need to get some things out of storage of course, but that won’t take too long. The trouble will be getting a van,” R was on the move, gesticulating to the emptiness. “Is it still six months quarantine for pets?”

“R, hold your horses,” Enjolras was smiling, but there was a tightness to his eyes. “You’re acting like we’ve already agreed to move back here for good.” Aire swung round, looking surprised.

“Haven’t we?” There was an edge, a challenge to his tone.

Combeferre coughed, lowering Tiggy to the ground and asking her if she would like to see outside. He practically dragged her down to the garden, showing her R’s studio which was still locked up, holding her up so she could see through the window. There was also a particularly inviting meadow which he fully intended to introduce her to, giving his friends all the time they needed to have the blazing row that was brewing.

Back in the house Enjolras waited until Combeferre had Tiggy out of earshot before speaking again.

“I can’t just give up my job and move back here where I have no job at all if you’re going to change your mind three months down the line,” he sighed, rubbing his forehead. When he looked up, R was glaring at him.

“You think I’m being impulsive,” he said flatly and Enjolras sighed, not rising to the bait.

“No, I just want to be sure.”

“When have I ever been sure about anything?” R scoffed, spinning around as though to walk away, but Enjolras closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms round R’s waist, pressing a kiss to his neck.

“Me?” He murmured softly before nipping at R’s earlobe. He felt his husband relax in his arms. Aire turned on the spot, wrapping his arms tightly round Enjolras, dropping his head onto his shoulder. They stood like that for a few moments, wrapped up in each other, blonde curls and brown, shorter, with some silver and grey mixing in, but still the same as they had ever been.

“You don’t play fair,” R muttered petulantly and Enjolras chuckled before pressing a kiss to R’s neck. Aire pulled back, suddenly grinning wickedly. Seizing Enjolras’s hand he began dragging the man towards the stairs.

“I think we should go and reacquaint ourselves with the view from our room!” he exhorted.

“Hang on, R, you’re pulling my arm from its socket,” Enjolras protested half-heartedly as he was manhandled up the stairs. He followed in a haze of confusion along the mezzanine and up the stairs to their bedroom. 

It was empty like all the other rooms, but the blinds were up and Enjolras paused for a moment, drawn to the startling views across the countryside. But he was swiftly distracted by R who turned back to Enjolras, a glint in his eye.

“Our room, Enjolras,” he murmured softly. “Do you remember our first day in this room?” He invaded Enjolras’s personal space, wrapping strong arms around his waist, leaning forward to speak into his ear, so that Enjolras could feel the soft wisps of breath.

“R –” he warned, grasping his husband’s shirt in what he fully intended to be a push away but actually resulted in R pressing even closer, kissing that particular spot behind Enjolras’s ear that made the man shiver. He was very aware that he was now hard, a fact of which R seemed equally conscious.

“Do you remember watching the sun go down as I fucked you on our brand new bed?” R’s voice seemed to come from far away and Enjolras closed his eyes. Images from that day floated through Enjolras’s mind, somewhat hazy but there nonetheless. He fought to keep his breath even. 

“We don’t have a bed,” he breathed because there wasn’t time for this. Combeferre was downstairs. Combeferre _and his daughter_ were downstairs. Aire kissed down his neck before sliding to his knees, nipping at Enjolras’s belly through his shirt.

“Aire,” Enjolras muttered, half-heartedly, moaning slightly as Aire nosed between his thighs. Aire only chuckled darkly in response, palming Enjolras through his trousers. There was the sound of a zip as R dealt with Enjolras’s fly and then R’s tongue found him, licking playfully at his tip and Enjolras was lost.

A very small part of Enjolras was horribly embarrassed that they had been in their house less than fifteen minutes before he had been divested of his trousers and R was on his knees, sucking him like it was going out of fashion.

“Aire, fuck,” he muttered, aware that his hands were now stroking through familiar curls. There was a hum in response and that was not going to help the situation at all. Enjolras tried to keep his moans quiet but he honestly couldn’t be sure of his volume. Aire’s mouth was just so warm and wet, encompassing him fully as the man hollowed his cheeks, head bobbing up and down Enjolras’s shaft. He struggled, unsuccessfully, to keep his hips still.

Aire’s hands were clutching Enjolras’s arse, fingers digging in, and it was all too much. Enjolras came with a small cry, Aire sucking him through it. Then he sat back on his heels, looking up with reverent adoration at Enjolras whose chest was still heaving.

“You...” Enjolras flushed red, pulling up his trousers and heading towards the bathroom, hoping the water was still on. “Words fail me.” He tried the tap, grateful when water gurgled into the sink. 

“Yeah, you’re really complaining,” Aire smirked, following him in, wiping his chin. Enjolras’s face broke into a smile as he caught R’s eye in the mirror, before he shook his head.

“Everything all right up there?” Combeferre’s concerned voice filtered up from the bottom of the stairs on the mezzanine.

“Be right down!” Aire shouted, Enjolras cringing at how loud it echoed in the bathroom.

When they appeared a few minutes later, any hope Enjolras might have had of possibly hiding what the pair of them had been up to went out of the window with Combeferre’s raised eyebrows. Enjolras coughed, attempting to appear nonchalant but Ferre was having none of it. He folded his arms, shaking his head in exasperation. Tiggy peered round his legs, looking up at them with amusement.

“I can’t actually believe I’m about to say this, but you’re worse than Courf and Jehan. So I hope you’re proud of yourselves.” Enjolras blushed furiously. Aire just grinned at him as though it was the highest compliment Combeferre could have paid him.

+

Later that night, back in Combeferre’s spare room, R bit down on a pillow, mentally cursing his life choices as Enjolras licked into him. He was horribly aware of the number of people in the house but Enjolras seemed determined to pay him back for earlier. Lying on his belly, Enjolras’s tongue fucking into his arse, the effort of staying silent was almost too much.

“Enjolras,” he begged, hissing as his husband tried to reach between him and the mattress. R obligingly raised his hips so Enjolras could wrap a hand round his cock, tongue still doing evil things to his arse.

“Don’t you want to come, R?” Enjolras whispered in the dark, voice far too innocent and Aire hated him right at that moment. A pat to his arse cheek signalled him to turn over and he thanked everything he didn’t believe in that Enjolras had finally seen sense, or taken pity on him, or both. Whatever the truth of it, Enjolras took R into his mouth, jerking him roughly at the same time.

R pulled a pillow over his face. He was far too used to their home back in the middle of nowhere, or anonymous hotel rooms. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d needed to come quietly.

His back arched as he climaxed, groaning into the pillow, body finally relaxing against the mattress with relief.

“God, Enjolras,” he sighed, breathing hard. “You made your point.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Enjolras whispered in an ingenuous tone, scooting back up the bed, curling into R’s side, resting his head on his husband’s shoulder. R snorted.

“Sure,” he muttered, smiling into the darkness. They lay like that together and Aire was half convinced Enjolras was asleep when the man in question cleared his throat.

“Do you really want to sell up and come back here for good?”

Aire considered the question. For some reason, talking to Enjolras in the dark was easier than when they were face to face during the day. In the dark he could focus his thoughts and get lost in Enjolras’s voice.

“I’d like to keep it for holidays,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “But yes, I’d like to come back here full time. I miss our house. And I know Appy would love the fields, but the six months in quarantine might be a bit hard on them.”

“I love how high up on your agenda our cats are. Never mind a job to pay the bills –” Aire silenced his grumbling husband with a kiss.

“Oh please, like you couldn’t have a pick of the jobs!” R teased, digging Enjolras lightly in the ribs, the man making a vague noise of protest. “And that’s working on the basis that Courf and Bahorel don’t want you back.”

There was another pause, and Aire closed his eyes, listening to Enjolras breathing beside him. He could almost hear the cogs going round.

“What about you? What do you want?” he ventured, because Enjolras’s opinion was important to him. Aire was excited to be back. He had felt more relaxed in the past three days than he had in the last six months. But that would mean nothing if Enjolras was unhappy.

“My father is due to retire in a year’s time,” Enjolras murmured, almost as though he was thinking out loud. Aire waited, giving Enjolras time to form his words.

“I had been wondering what we would do when that happened. I suspect my mother wants to stay out there but dad often spoke about retiring back over here, perhaps going back to Devon.” Aire unconsciously rubbed circles into Enjolras’s skin as he listened, finding his warmth calming beneath his fingers. 

“So I suppose the answer is I don’t really know what I want. And that’s probably what scares me the most,” Enjolras’s voice was quiet, strangely vulnerable, and Aire held him all the closer for it.

“It’s ok not to have a plan, you know,” he whispered into Enjolras’s hair, pressing a soft kiss to those curls. “I mean, we got this far ok, didn’t we? And most of that was us making it up as we went along.” He felt Enjolras shaking slightly against him with soft laughter.

Then Enjolras was moving, rolling in towards R until he was almost on top of him, seizing him in a gentle but insistent kiss.

“Wherever we are, I don’t really care, as long as it’s us together,” Enjolras rested his head against Aire’s chest, listening to the heartbeat within. 

“You’re just a big softy romantic,” Aire grinned, holding tight to Enjolras’s arms, not letting the man go. “All these years I thought I was married to living marble; all those people you scare to death with the patented Enjolras Glare! But you’re just a squishy little teddy bear when it comes to it,”

“Fuck off!” Enjolras slapped him lightly, but he didn’t move, too comfortable, too content to do anything but lie there across his husband’s chest, the constant heartbeat a steady rhythm lulling him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooops, I accidentally upped the rating :-p
> 
> Daddy Ferre is just my absolute favourite thing ever.
> 
> Thanks to Sarah and Cat for their help :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and R tried to keep their visit to England a secret...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!
> 
> I finally, FINALLY finished another chapter. This chapter was a real nightmare. It has been sitting on my laptop in various states of completion since May... sorry. But hey! It's finished now.
> 
> So, warnings. Angst; loads and loads of beautiful angst. Also the raking up of bad memories.
> 
> (if anyone wants anything else tagged please let me know)

Their cover was thoroughly blown one night, about a week after their visit to the house, by the sudden and unexpected arrival of Courfeyrac at Combeferre’s door. 

Plans were already in place for Enjolras and Grantaire to make a surprise appearance at the reunion meal which was arranged for the following weekend. The back room of a carefully selected pub that catered for children of all ages (“So that means Courf can come,” Kate joked, winking at Grantaire) had been booked and everyone had confirmed that they would be attending. 

Joly and Bossuet, who usually stayed with Combeferre and Kate on such occasions, had decided to stay with the Prouvaires after Combeferre casually mentioned that Chicken Pox was doing the rounds at Tiggy’s nursery. This was technically true even though Tiggy had already contracted Chicken Pox the year before, but knowing Bossuet’s luck he would probably end up with shingles either way.

It was Thursday night. Tiggy had been bathed and given three bedtimes stories by Uncle Raa so Combeferre could get ahead with his marking and lesson plans. Kate was out with some of her work colleagues for a leaving do, leaving Enjolras flicking channels. It was peaceful, it was domestic.

Enjolras got up to answer the door bell, anticipating Kate back from her night out. The last thing he expected was to find Courfeyrac soaking wet and looking very sorry for himself on Combeferre’s doorstep.

In all fairness, the last thing Courfeyrac expected to find behind Combeferre’s front door was Enjolras. He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped before the first word was fully formed. He stood on the step for a few moments, processing the fact that one of his best friends who should be on the other side of the planet was actually standing right in front of him.

“Courf,” Enjolras squeaked, and the sound of Enjolras’s voice seemed to snap the man back to reality. In two steps, he was pulling Enjolras into a hard hug.

“What the actual fuck, Enjolras,” Courf’s voice wavered as he wrapped his arms all the way round his friend. Enjolras, initially rigid with surprise, soon relaxed and returned the hug.

“Hey, I’m glad to see you too,” he couldn’t help but smile. Courfeyrac shuddered in his arms. 

Combeferre appeared then, summoned by Enjolras’s surprised tone. Together they pulled Courfeyrac into the house, leading him to the living room to sit down.

“Where’s Jehan?” Enjolras prompted gently, while Combeferre went to get Courf a glass of water and a towel. Courfeyrac closed his eyes, shaking his head.

“We had a fight,” he sighed, accepting the glass gratefully and taking a long sip. “I don’t even know what I did this time. He was just so,” he paused, squeezing his eyes shut, his face screwed up in pain. “He was just so angry with me.”

Grantaire appeared in the doorway, twisting his mouth in contemplation. When Courfeyrac opened his eyes and saw him, he nodded his head in greeting and Grantaire returned the gesture with a reassuring smile.

“I was going to ask to borrow your spare room again,” Courf looked at Combeferre with a rueful smile. “Though maybe I should ask for your sofa instead.”

Combeferre sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose. An unhappy silence settled over the solemn group.

“Of course you can stay, I’ll sort out some blankets.”

As he passed Grantaire in the doorway he gave the man a pointed look. Taking the hint, R followed Ferre into the hallway and up the stairs.

“So how long has Courf been needing your spare room?” he asked, scratching his chin with worry. Combeferre sighed.

“It’s happening more and more. They seem solid enough, but this is the second time in three weeks and, unfortunately, I’m just not in the loop enough to be able to get to the root of the issue. Courf never wants to talk about it, and as much as I love Jehan, he and I have never been close enough to be confidantes.”

Combeferre sighed, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. He looked extremely tired. 

“The truth is I’m far too busy with Tiggy and Kate and work to make time, which I recognise is a failing on my part –” Grantaire snorted, interrupting him.

“Combeferre, I know you’ve always been the only responsible adult in the group, but I refuse to allow you to feel guilty for not being able to parent us for the rest of our lives.” Combeferre managed a small smile as Grantaire reached out to squeeze his arm reassuringly.

“I’ll go talk to Jehan. Find out what’s going on.”

Combeferre nodded, looking relieved. He reached into the airing cupboard and pulled down a spare duvet, blanket and some clean sheets. As they returned down the stairs they heard an excited yell. When he re-entered the living room, Grantaire found himself with arms full of an excited Courfeyrac.

“You guys are coming home?!” his whole face had lit up at the news and Grantaire couldn’t help but smile.

“Courf, please, Tiggy is asleep. If she finds out you’re here I’ll never get her back to bed,” Combeferre frowned at him reproachfully and Courf blushed, looking suitably chastised but still obviously thrilled. Grantaire rolled his eyes at Enjolras.

“What?” Enjolras gazed back innocently. 

“It was going to be a surprise,” Grantaire replied pointedly, but he couldn’t keep his face serious for long, not with the patent joy it had brought to his friend. It made him ache. They had been away too long.

“I’m going to talk to Jehan, ok?” he said quietly, looking at Courfeyrac, trying to gauge his reaction. His friend’s face fell and Grantaire could kick himself.

“Look, don’t worry about it. Whatever it is, I’m sure he will tell me. We’ll work something out.”

Courf nodded, but he didn’t look convinced.

+

It was about forty minutes on the Tube and Grantaire hoped that Jehan let him in, because it was getting very late and he wasn’t sure how late the trains ran. The thought of night buses didn’t much fill him with joy either and he certainly wasn’t about to call Combeferre, not on a school night. He remembered how tired the man was and he was already putting up with enough from them.

It was a mild night now that the rain had finally stopped, and he jogged the five or so minutes it took to get from the station to Jehan and Courf’s little semi-detached house. It was very suburban, not at all the sort of house he would have imagined Jehan living in back when he had first met him. As he approached the front door, he felt strangely homesick for their old flat.

The house was in complete darkness and he had to check the address on his phone to make sure he had the right place. Unsurprisingly, Jehan did not answer the door when he rang the bell.

Grantaire sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He knew Jehan didn’t lose his temper often, but the few times he had been on the other side of that sunny disposition, the experience had been more than terrifying. He also felt a stab of guilt for all the times he and Enjolras had argued. It was not pleasant being in his friends’ shoes for once and he planned to send them all flowers as some sort of belated apology.

After three rings of the doorbell elicited no response, he took out his phone, scrolling through his contacts. He hoped Jehan still had the same phone number.

_To Jehan: Hey, can you let me in please?_

After a short pause, the landing light came on, reflecting through the frosted glass of the front door, and he heard hurried footsteps descending the stairs. All at once, the front door flew open and Jehan stood there, green eyes wide, his long strawberry-blond hair spilling out in an unusually bedraggled braid. 

Then the man threw himself at Grantaire, wrapping himself around his friend, and as Grantaire returned the hug he felt Jehan sobbing into his neck.

“Hey, come on, don’t cry,” R murmured, negotiating them into the house, off the street and away from prying eyes. He managed to kick the front door shut but then they just stood in the hallway, Jehan holding onto him as though he never wanted to let go. Finally his grip loosened, and Jehan stepped back, face streaked with tears.

“How,” Jehan started, staring up with wide eyes at the man in his hallway. “How are you here? Is this magic?”

Jehan, who had been wishing more than anything that he wasn’t alone, who had been gripping his pillow tightly wishing that Grantaire was here in London and not on the other side of the world, if only for a few moments so that he could hug him and R would chuck him under his chin and kiss his forehead and just make it better; Jehan could hardly believe his eyes.

R set about making Jehan some tea, fumbling his way through unfamiliar cupboards as he attempted to negotiate the kitchen. They settled themselves at the breakfast bar, hands wrapped round the steaming mugs and letting the silence get comfortable.

Jehan had blotchy red eyes and his chest still rose raggedly as he drew breath. R’s heart broke for him and he thought of how wretched and miserable Courfeyrac was, sitting on Combeferre’s sofa across the city. What was it with these two?

“So you finally mastered Apparition,” Jehan croaked, taking a small sip of his tea. Aire rolled his eyes.

“I wish,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders. “How mad would you be if I said Enjolras and I have been staying with Ferre for a few weeks?”

Jehan sure packed a wallop, and Aire let out a strangled yelp, almost toppling off the stool as Jehan’s palm cracked down on his arm. He rubbed at it, hissing, reflecting that he probably deserved that.

“A few weeks? Fuck, were you going to pop by or just hope that, well…” Jehan trailed off, the small spark of fury in his eyes quickly cooling as he was reminded of the circumstances of R’s sudden arrival. R scooted closer, putting his arm round his friend. He felt Jehan relax into him, burrowing into R’s arms.

“Well, you know that reunion shindig next weekend…” R started. He felt Jehan draw a sharp breath and then judder with laughter.

“Oh you cunning little creatures!” Jehan exclaimed. “I should have known something was up. Combeferre’s never insisted on RSVPs before. I just assumed it was Kate’s influence.”

R let the silence get comfortable again, observing Jehan over the top of his mug. Prouvaire was visibly calmer now but still pale, and his beautiful green eyes were distant and sad.

“Come on,” R muttered quietly, setting his mug down. “Tell me, why is your husband crying his eyes out on my husband’s shoulder?” Jehan tensed his shoulders but didn’t look up.

“We had a fight.” Jehan’s tone was cool with a hard edge to it and R could almost still the walls being thrown up around his friend in defence.

“Well that much I had gathered,” he replied lightly, unwilling to let Jehan’s tone unsettle him. “Care to elaborate?” Jehan seemed to be pondering, his head on one side, chewing his lip as he contemplated his answer. R was content to wait patiently.

“He should never have married me.”

R gasped, feeling Jehan’s words pierce right through him. Such an extraordinary turn of phrase! Jehan shook his head miserably, taking a deep slow breath.

“Jean Prouvaire, you take that back! Courfeyrac loves you.” R didn’t mean the words to come out as harsh as they did, but he was just so shocked. A thousand images flashed through his mind; the day he had first met Jehan and Courfeyrac, how they had welcomed him into their home. He could see them, plain as day, seated in his grandmother’s kitchen up in Sheffield, preparing Christmas dinner. 

He thought of Jehan in that beautiful wedding dress, ivy threaded through his hair as he walked down the aisle, eyes focused on Courfeyrac who was staring in awe at the vision sweeping towards him. R didn’t need the photographs to help him remember, it was etched on his soul. 

Jehan’s eyes were closed; he looked so calm, R wanted to shake him.

“Jehan…” he faltered. What could he say?

“I’m not enough for him,” Jehan whispered, eyes still closed. R’s brain still wasn’t working, still wasn’t allowing him to understand whatever Jehan was trying to tell him.

“I don’t understand what you mean, Jehan. You say Courfeyrac shouldn’t have married you, that you’re not enough for him. Has he done something to make you feel like this?”

It was as if a dam had burst. Jehan opened his eyes and they were hard and resolute, and words began to tumble out of his mouth at full speed. It had all started with Tiggy. Jehan was so embarrassed because how could you blame a three-year-old for your marriage problems? At first it hadn’t been too bad because of course Courfeyrac was excited to be named godfather; a role he had taken extremely seriously.

He was in love with his goddaughter, as he should be. He was excellent with her and no doubt Kate and Combeferre were very grateful for how much help Courfeyrac gave them, how he was happy to watch her some days when they weren’t able to organise childcare, or have her over some afternoons just to give them some time to themselves. He even babysat some nights so that Kate and Combeferre could have a grown-up date night. This, all on top of his flourishing law career. 

Then Bahorel and Feuilly went and adopted last year and everyone had made such a big deal out of it; how things were changing for same-sex couples because having a family was now a viable option, either through surrogacy or adoption. Comments had been passed, elbows had been nudged. Courfeyrac would take Tiggy to the playground on weekends while Combeferre and Kate did their planning and all the mums just adored him; meanwhile Jehan felt like he was going mad.

“He’s excellent with her, he really is. Whenever he’s with her he lights up. He knows just what to say to her, what words to whisper to get her to eat all her tea or agree to a bath. He’s fantastic with kids and everyone keeps telling me what a great father he’ll make,” Jehan finally seemed to be slowing down, gripping his mug so tightly R was surprised it hadn’t shattered. Suddenly a light bulb went on.

“You don’t want children,” he breathed, cutting across Jehan’s monologue. It was the wrong thing to say because Jehan’s face instantly crumbled and he buried his face in his arms. There were no sounds, no sobs, just silence in the kitchen.

“I can’t give him what he wants,” Jehan’s muffled words filtered up through his arms. 

R was lost for words. He wasn’t quite sure when the world had decided to stop making sense but this situation, right now in this kitchen, needed to stop.

“Jehan,” he said slowly, and for some ridiculous reason he found he wanted to laugh even though it was the least funny situation he had ever found himself in. “Have you talked to Courfeyrac about this?”

R took the resounding silence as a negative answer, which was rather what he had suspected. Jehan, for some unfathomable reason, had thrown common sense out of the window and had been stewing and dwelling and making assumptions in his head without actually breathing a word to anyone before exploding in all directions, much to the bemusement of his husband. Now who did that sound like?

“You’re an idiot, Prouvaire.”

That did it. Jehan looked up, scowling, face red. He opened his mouth, probably ready with a scathing retort, but R didn’t let him speak.

“No, don’t you look at me like that. There’s a man across London getting Enjolras’s shirt wet because he doesn’t know what he did wrong.”

Maybe Jehan was right, maybe Courfeyrac did want children. That didn’t necessarily mean he would pick kids over Jehan. But they had to talk it through. R groaned, standing up to replenish his cup. He had a feeling this was going to be a long night; clearly this was punishment for every time he and Enjolras had worried their friends to death in the past.

+

“When did we teach our friends such bad habits?” R grumbled. Enjolras’s soft chuckle filtered over the line and R couldn’t help but miss him terribly. He was comfortable enough, curled up under a blanket on the bed in the Prouvaire’s spare room. He and Jehan had stayed up for hours chatting, not only about their problems, but about other things as well, the conversation flowing organically until both men were yawning too hard to continue.

When he had crawled into bed, R had checked his phone to find a dozen messages from Enjolras asking whether he had arrived safely, if Jehan was ok and if he could please call when he got the chance, no matter the time.

“Courfeyrac is exhausted, he went to sleep about twenty minutes after you left,” Enjolras informed him, tone shaded with worry.

“They’ll sort themselves out, they just need to talk.” R couldn’t help but smile as Enjolras snorted. 

“I guess it is a very big deal. I can understand why Jehan is worried about it,” Enjolras mused, voice sounding sleepy. “In some cases it can be a pretty big deal breaker.” R wasn’t quite sure to say in reply to that so he kept quiet, considering Jehan and Courfeyrac’s relationship as he knew it. 

Courfeyrac had never really struck him as the broody type but then people changed; they evolved, especially when they were in relationships. Look at Feuilly and Bahorel. If you’d told R five years ago that Bahorel would become a father of two he would have laughed heartily before laying a fair amount of money on a bet to the contrary. That was absolutely no disrespect to Bahorel; he had told his friend as much over Skype when he and Feuilly had first broken the news that they were looking into it. He supposed none of their friends had really seemed like parents back when they had first known each other.

“Maybe they should have talked about it before they got married,” Enjolras’s voice brought R back to the present and it was like a slosh of cold water.

“Enjolras!” he exclaimed, feeling rather jarred by his husband’s outburst.

“Sorry,” he amended softly, “but it is the sort of thing most couples do discuss before getting married.”

R made an unhappy noise, a sinking feeling in his guts. He had a sneaking suspicion they weren’t talking about Courfeyrac and Jehan anymore.

When he and Enjolras had been arranging their wedding their thoughts had very much been on the immediate future, their future together; just the two of them. His life had always been slightly outside of reality anyway, and his relationship with Enjolras hadn’t really played to the usual rules.

“Is it something we should have talked about?” Enjolras asked, voice sounding strangely vulnerable across the phone line. R wished he had Enjolras with him so he could see his face, read his expression and translate where this was coming from. He took a deep breath and decided to be brutally honest. Heaven knows he and Enjolras had been through enough in the past two decades. 

“Enjolras, I would be an absolute car crash as a parent,” he stated bluntly. Enjolras made a protesting noise and R almost laughed, feeling a wave of affection.

“You know it’s true. I’m always hopping about the place for work. You can just about put up with my moods because you’re some sort of magic dragon-handler,” he smiled as Enjolras chuckled softly, the seriousness of the moment broken. 

“I think you’d make a fantastic father,” Enjolras murmured quietly and R swallowed, his chest suddenly tightening. For a brief moment he allowed himself to imagine a child – boy or girl, it didn’t matter – a healthy child with ten fingers and ten toes, golden locks and blue eyes like his dad. He could picture teaching it to ride a bike or hold a paintbrush, could imagine helping it with homework or playing it his favourite albums.

His blood ran cold as he suddenly wondered how he would react the first time it cried and wouldn’t stop. A swooping sensation of helplessness hit him as he tried to imagine how he would cope if left on his own with an entire person that had its own ideas, would likely act out and behave like all babies, toddlers, children and teenagers did when disagreeing with their parents. What if he turned out to be just like his own father? What if it was in his blood?

“R!” Enjolras’s voice was loud in his ear and the dizziness began to fade. “Hey, it’s ok. R, it’s ok. Talk to me, love.”

R realised how tightly he was clutching the phone, his heart hammering in his chest. He couldn’t, just couldn’t be allowed to be a parent.

“I can’t,” he spluttered. He could hear Enjolras hushing him, whispering soothing words in his ear.

“It’s ok, R, whatever it is, it’s ok.”

Suddenly arms were wrapping round him, the phone gently prised out of his fingers. He could hear Jehan muttering to Enjolras and then the bed dipped as his friend crawled in beside him.

“Hey,” Jehan tucked his head into R’s neck. “Talk to me, darling.”

R didn’t know where to begin. He felt cold to his very soul. Jehan was rubbing his back, trying to calm the goosebumps that covered him.

“Enjolras said I’d be a good dad,” he gulped, still feeling like gravity had temporarily been suspended and not in a good way.

“Well, he’s right,” Jehan replied lightly, but R shook his head, squeezing his eyes tight shut, burying himself into the welcoming and steadying warmth of Jehan’s arms.

“What if I’m just like _him_?”

Jehan didn’t reply. He kissed R’s forehead and held him until he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been advised by my beta that this chapter was "not ok" and should have come with a health warning for Excessive Emotions.
> 
> Please feel free to yell at me below.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“We don’t have to talk about it.”_
> 
> _Enjolras had a particularly earnest look on his face as he leant against the doorframe of the bedroom. The “right now” missing from the end of his initial sentence was implicit. R rubbed his eyes, drained from the emotion and lack of sleep._
> 
> _“You and I both know that’s not true,” he groaned, fingers scrubbing at his eyelids as he laid down on their bed in Combeferre’s spare room._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow ok so I'm actually posting a chapter for Epilogue. Miracles are a thing!
> 
> I don't think there's anything you need to be warned about here... apart from the wonderful thing that is Bahorel and Feuilly as parents.  
> Enjoy!

Enjolras was waiting on the step of Combeferre’s house when Jehan drove up in his purple Porsche Carerra. R stepped out rather gingerly, muttering something about Jehan driving like a terror, before being swept into a bone crushing hug by his husband.

Jehan let them have their moment. R had finally dropped off to sleep in the early hours of the morning and Jehan had stayed with him all night. He’d insisted on making them both breakfast before driving R back to Combeferre’s house, hoping by that time that Courfeyrac would have gone to work. However, turning to give Enjolras and Grantaire their privacy, Jehan found his own husband standing in the doorway looking pale with dark shadows under his eyes.

A clenching sense of guilt settled in Jehan’s chest; he had done that to Courf; driven the man he loved out of their home and not for the first time. He looked rather rumpled, as though what small amount of sleep he might have had last night was gained on a sofa. That was wrong because Courfeyrac belonged in their bed.

“Hey,” Courf croaked, looking rather uncertain. Jehan opened his mouth and then closed it again because the only thing he could think of to say was _“why aren’t you at work?”_ He doubted that would go across very well. Instead, he took a decisive step forward, watching how Courfeyrac’s eyes widened slightly, but the man didn’t flinch as Jehan raised his hand, cupping his husband’s cheek.

Courfeyrac leaned into the touch, closing his eyes, and Jehan felt his own heart beating painfully in his chest.

“Oh darling,” he murmured, stepping up on tiptoe to press a kiss to the corner of Courfeyrac’s mouth. 

“I’m so sorry,” Courfeyrac whispered, pressing their foreheads together as his hands found Jehan’s waist. There wasn’t anything for Courfeyrac to apologise for and Jehan doubted that Courfeyrac knew of any reason, he was just trying to fix this; for some reason that knowledge hurt the most. Jehan never wanted to see Courfeyrac look so broken again in his entire life. Stretching up on tiptoe, he pulled Courfeyrac in for a real kiss.

+

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

Enjolras had a particularly earnest look on his face as he leant against the doorframe of the bedroom. The “right now” missing from the end of his initial sentence was implicit.

Courfeyrac and Jehan had left quite quickly, turning down the polite offer of tea before climbing back into their car and driving home. No doubt they would be having their own conversations. R rubbed his eyes, drained from the emotion and lack of sleep.

“You and I both know that’s not true,” he groaned, fingers scrubbing at his eyelids as he laid down on their bed in Combeferre’s spare room. “I’m surprised it hasn’t come up before.”

Enjolras sighed. Through his closed eyes, Grantaire could hear his husband move about the room before feeling the mattress dip and then familiar arms encircling him. He took a breath, enjoying how Enjolras filled his lungs as the man he loved so much tucked himself under Grantaire’s chin.

“I can hear your heart beat,” Enjolras murmured into the silence of the bedroom. Grantaire, not knowing what to say in response, took a deep breath, enjoying the weight of Enjolras as he ran his fingers through gold curls.

“I don’t want kids, Enjolras,” he said flatly after a few more moments of silence. “Other people’s kids are fine; I’ve no objection to them in principle, I just don’t want my own. Never have done.”

“Ok,” Enjolras replied, his tone soft and level, still resting against Grantaire’s chest. “I don’t actually want children either. But that has nothing to do with my belief that you would be a good father.”

This was headed towards entirely new territory for them. Over the years, they had pretty much mastered the art of communication. Between them, there wasn’t much they wouldn’t talk about but this was definitely a Red Flag topic; Aire’s father. 

That day back in April all those years ago was just something they didn’t talk about. They hadn’t ever needed to, never mind wanted to. And Enjolras would be more than happy to never allude to the man’s existence ever again, except that he couldn’t entertain the idea of Grantaire feeling this way. Grantaire wasn’t his father and Enjolras just wanted him to understand that.

But Grantaire seemed to be lost on a train of thought, his brilliant mind whirring away as he mulled over what Enjolras had said.

“Look, no one actually goes into parenthood intending to do a bad job,” he began, and Enjolras could feel how Grantaire swallowed as he considered his next words.

“This is something I have to believe in my heart of hearts, Enjolras, it’s important to me. Nobody has a kid and sets out to… to do what my dad did. I’m sure that when my parents found out my mother was pregnant both of them were delighted and excited.”

Grantaire was staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore the distant flashes of his early childhood memories; his parents, young and happy. Trips to the seaside, or just sitting at home, making a fort under the kitchen table, watching his mother’s legs moving around him. Swinging on his father’s arm as they walked down the high street on a Saturday morning.

Trying to equate them with what happened later was a complete mindfuck and no amount of therapy would ever really reconcile the fact that his mother had been killed by someone who was meant to love, honour and cherish her. 

“No one starts out with anything but the very best of intentions. But that doesn’t change what happened to me.” 

Enjolras was silent, aware that Grantaire’s grip on him was suddenly very tight, almost too tight. His own mind was frozen, nausea rising and a faint pounding in his ears. 

“No one can know for sure,” Grantaire whispered. “And I don’t want to experiment.”

+

“Guys! Five minutes and then I’m going without you!” Feuilly yelled up the stairs. 

They were going to be late but that was situation normal these days. He strode into the living room, looking for his keys, when he found Arun sitting on the sofa in the smart shirt, trousers and tie he had been bought specially for the occasion. He was drawn up straight, shoulders folded in on themselves and hands resting stiffly on his knees. Poor kid looked bloody miserable.

“Hey, you ready to go?” Feuilly asked him gently.

Arun was quiet until you broke down the barriers. Once you got past the shedload of walls the kid had built up around him, he was the sunniest child with a blinding smile and real passion. It had taken a lot of work from both Bahorel and Feuilly to get him to that point but right now he looked just like the day Feuilly had met him; uncomfortable, uncertain, holding himself together as though ready to run at a moment’s notice.

He looked up at Feuilly with cautious eyes and automatically, Feuilly dropped down to a crouch so he was on Arun’s level, keeping his face neutral and open and giving Arun all the time he needed to find his words.

“Are there gonna be lots of people, Dad?” the boy asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Feuilly took a breath, trying to do some quick maths in his head. 

“Well, It’s Combeferre’s party, so he’ll be there which means Kate and Tiggy will be there too,” he started, counting them off on his fingers. “There’s me, your sister, your Dad,” he continued. “Courfeyrac and Jehan, you remember them?” He paused, waiting for Arun to nod before he continued.

“Some friends are coming down from Birmingham; Joly and Bossuet. They’re bringing their girlfriend as well, if the rumours are to be believed,” Feuilly smiled but Arun just stared back at him impassively, not reacting at all to the fact that it had been a bit of a coup, discovering that the oldest couple in their group were, in fact, a very harmonious three. There had been a lot of gossip and speculation on the Facebook group ever since Bossuet had spilled the beans and Feuilly suspected she would be the highlight of the afternoon.

“So that makes about twelve, including you,” he finished, leaving it up to Arun to decide whether or not that constituted ‘a lot’. The boy drummed his fingers on his knees and Feuilly would have given anything to know what his son was thinking about.

Being a parent was bloody hard work, and it wasn’t as if Feuilly was a stranger to the concept. It was back-breaking, emotionally draining, financially devastating and there were moments where he and Bahorel looked at each other - usually when the washing machine had flooded the kitchen and Georgie was running up and down the stairs in just her knickers while Arun climbed into the airing cupboard, refusing to come out – and they shared a look that said _‘what the fuck are we doing?’_

But it was also incredible and Feuilly wouldn’t change it for the world.

“Listen,” he said, clearing his throat and standing up. “I’m betting that if you could pick anything out of your wardrobe to wear today it wouldn’t be that,” he indicated the shirt and tie and was rewarded when Arun scrunched up his nose in distaste. 

Feuilly wasn’t sure exactly what he and Bahorel had been thinking; some half-arsed idea of it being The Thing To Do – dressing your kids in absurd get-ups for semi-formal events. Feuilly had memories of being made to wear grey shorts and a heavily starched shirt with a stiff black tie on Sundays at St Margaret’s. As if it wasn’t bad enough being wedged onto a wooden bench for an hour. Well, he wasn’t going to be That Parent.

“Why don’t you go put on whatever you want,” he nodded in the direction of the door. Yes it would probably make them even later than they already were, but it wasn’t as if Bahorel and Georgie were ready to go. Arun stared at him for a moment, as though trying to work out if his Dad was being serious, before shrugging his shoulders and hopping off the sofa. Feuilly heard him pad up the stairs and enter his bedroom. 

A suspicious giggle from upstairs caught his attention. From the sounds of things, Bahorel and Georgie were in the master bedroom. Following the laughter, Feuilly made his way upstairs to find out what was so funny. He stopped in the doorway, observing the scene before him.

Georgie was standing on the laundry basket next to her Daddy, peering into the mirror as she spiked her hair with wax in an attempt to imitate the bigger man beside her. It had been a long time since Bahorel had shaved in his undercut. Being a successful solicitor had meant sporting a vaguely professional haircut for most of the time. For this weekend he was briefly going back to the good old days, digging out his tongue bar as well as bleaching his fringe and dyeing it bubblegum pink – Georgie’s suggestion, naturally. There were already plans afoot for a ceremonial shaving on Sunday night.

“Well don’t you look smart!” he complimented, announcing his presence. Georgie turned, grinning broadly before jumping down and running over.

“Daddy said I can get my tongue pierced!” she declared gleefully, throwing her arms round Feuilly’s waist. Bahorel coughed awkwardly.

“When you’re eighteen, Georgie,” he clarified, giving Feuilly a look over her shoulder that communicated all too clearly that she was attempting to throw him under a bus. Feuilly rolled his eyes. 

“Georgie,” Feuilly started to untangle his daughter’s arms from round his waist. “Your brother is changing into something more comfortable to wear today. You can do the same if you like?”

Georgie looked up at him with intense green eyes that reminded him vaguely of Jehan, except that they were framed by very dark brown hair.

“Oooh, can I wear Arun’s shirt?” Her face lit up, eyes widening brightly. She looked over to Bahorel, seeking permission. Bahorel shrugged looking to Feuilly for cues. Something they’d learnt fairly early on was to work as a team and provide a united front.

“If Arun says its ok – but remember to ask nicely!” Feuilly called out after her as she skipped out the door. He turned back to where Bahorel was chuckling quietly to himself, putting the final touches to his hair.

“What’s all that about?” he asked, meeting Feuilly’s eyes in the mirror. Feuilly grinned.

“Well if they’re going to spend the day in a room full of people they hardly know, they might as well be comfortable.”

Bahorel nodded, turning back to the mirror. Feuilly couldn’t help but smile at the man before him, reaching forward to brush his fingers against the rough stubble of Bahorel’s undercut.

“Like what you see?” Bahorel grinned at him in the mirror, twisting the last of the wax into his fringe. Feuilly rolled his eyes.

“Not sure why I should, it’s only your ugly mug,” he shot back, but he trailed his hand down the side of Bahorel’s face to cup his neck, applying gentle pressure to encourage him to turn round. Bahorel went willingly, leaning into Feuilly’s touch before pressing forward to steal a kiss.

“Ewww GROSS!” Georgie squealed from the door. Feuilly sighed, turning to remind her for the umpteenth time about not yelling in the house, when he spotted what she was wearing.

“Georgie, when I said you could wear Arun’s shirt, I did mean with something else. You know…. Jeans or a skirt or something.” He could feel Bahorel beside him shaking with the effort of not laughing. This was typical Georgie, of course. She had been wearing trousers a minute ago, he was sure of it. What on earth had possessed her to take them off?

His daughter just grinned wickedly, the sort of grin that promised bedlam and mischief and probably ten minutes of chasing her down and persuading her into actual clothing suitable for leaving the house in. Then she turned tail and ran, leaving peals of laughter in her wake.

Fifteen minutes later, Feuilly finally locked the front door as Bahorel, Arun and Georgie flocked towards the car. Georgie jogged up to the front passenger seat, calling out “shot gun!” like she normally did when they went out in the car.

“Not this time, Georgie,” Bahorel shook his head, gesturing towards the back door. “I need Daddy in the front with me to help me navigate”.

“But I can help you nannigate,” Georgie whined, pouting slightly. “It’s easy.” She cleared her throat before continuing, deepening her voice in what was clearly supposed to be an impression of Feuilly. 

“You need the next right, looking for the A blah blah blah before – I SAID RIGHT!” Bahorel chuckled as Georgie raised her voice. “Well, which right did you think I meant?! Now where the flipping heck are we?!” She started to mime flicking through an invisible map, grinning up at Bahorel who was now holding onto the car in an attempt to hold himself up, he was laughing that hard.

Feuilly was attempting to maintain an element of decorum while his family descended into hysterics around him. Even Arun, normally so reserved in public, was almost choking with laughter at his sister’s performance. 

“Nice try, Georgie,” Feuilly’s cheeks ached with effort, “but no dice. In the back, please.”

“Maybe next time, Georgie,” Bahorel confirmed, finally recovering enough breath to talk. Georgie shrugged, still pouting, but obediently climbed into the back of the car. Feuilly rubbed his head as he finally climbed into the passenger seat. Only thirty minutes behind schedule but it could have been worse. He caught Bahorel’s eye just as he buckled in.

“Ok, Magellan, where to?” Bahorel turned the engine over before setting his hands firmly and purposefully on the wheel. Feuilly shot him a wicked grin.

“Well, you need the next right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huge apologies for how long this has taken me.  
> Writing at the moment is a bit of a nightmare and I don't want to force it and for it to be subpar.
> 
> Many thanks to the lovely people who have dropped into my ask box on tumblr or who have left comments here, or on my other work. They really do give me life and make my day better so thank you so much.
> 
> Also, thanks as ever to Sarah, for her friendship as much as her beta skills.


End file.
